


I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

by darknesscrochets



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: 18 months timeskip, Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Introspection, Not Beta Read, Overuse of italics, Sleep Deprivation, Spoilers for S4, sort of? mostly hurt tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26401015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darknesscrochets/pseuds/darknesscrochets
Summary: Selected nights from a few weeks in Japan, during a mission and the quarantine that follows.4 times Oscar Wilde wakes up, and one time he goes back to sleep.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains some themes of panic and depression (they're somewhat mild, so I haven't tagged for them, but let me know if you would like me to).
> 
> Title from the Beatles song of the same name.

Oscar Wilde wakes up.

His forehead is resting against something hard--wood grain. His desk. It's dark now, when he last remembers the barest glimmers of sunset peeking through the ever-present thunderclouds.

He's still in his chair, at least. Sometimes he wakes up on the floor, having slid off his chair sometime in the night (or day, or--his sleep _schedule_ is more of a _suggestion_ , really). Rarely in his bed, if Zolf is between missions and feeling the lack of purpose keenly enough to turn to nagging Oscar during his downtime. 

Oscar’s always been used to insomnia, even before Paris and the curse; but something about this vein-ridden world, about the relentless grind of stress and lost hope, seems to have turned Oscar’s body against him, forcing him to rest even when he knows he can push further if he needs to.

He thinks Zolf's made his bad sleeping habits into one of those… projects of his. He doesn’t know why this particular cause seems to call to the dwarf. Oscar’s dedicated work ethic and negligible time in bed often benefit Zolf--the more time Oscar spends going through the never-ending paperwork and intel, the more time he has to tie threads of information together. More leads for Zolf to follow, more time on mission doing something _productive_. Something _worthwhile_.

If Oscar lets himself think about it for longer, he’d know it’s more than that. Piece it together with “ _take care of yourself, Oscar,_ ” and “ _we care about you, Oscar,_ ” and “ _what would we do if you died?_ ”

He doesn’t let himself think about any of those things. (Doesn’t let himself think that, maybe, Zolf considers Oscar’s well-being to be worthwhile. _Him_ to be worthwhile, even when he’s not contributing to their shared goals. It would be a hope he can’t afford to have.)

Instead, Oscar refocuses on the desk in front of him. Underneath him, really.

He doesn’t have time to doze off again. His agents, his team, don’t have the time. They’re off to another part of the island tomorrow, and as soon as they return, they won’t be his again. 

…That’s something he doesn’t--can’t--let himself think about, either.

Oscar braces his hands on the desk, pushes himself up off the desk with arms that do not shake from exhaustion. Checks for blood under his nose with a steady finger. It comes away clean, as it has for months now. Since he lost his best team, and left the meritocracy and its support behind.

Some of the things Barnes told him about the meritocracy before the man left the navy--well. In retrospect, Oscar believes it’s a good thing he took Grizzop’s advice for once, and left when he did. He wonders, though, how long the infection had been around even by then. How long his orders came not from a trusted source, but… somewhere else.

Long enough to turn the situational awareness of an agent into a well-earned paranoia.

Oscar's slumped back into his chair without thinking. His body begs for rest, but he _can’t_. He steals a moment, before returning to the never-ending work, to rest his face in his hands. A moment to give into a little bit of hope. He doesn’t know what he hopes for--there’s too many unknowns, too many things wrong with the world.

He breathes. Just for a moment.

Oscar pulls his hands, still not shaking, away from his face. He sits up again, neatens the papers that have fallen into disarray while he slept. Sleep is a generous term for what he does, but he'll take what he can get.

He gets back to work.

* * *

Oscar wakes, abruptly, face down on the desk again. He doesn’t know what woke him, but he can feel the edges of a nightmare receding into the dark (darker) corners of his mind. His eyelashes just brush the wood of the desk as he blinks. At least he hasn't landed atop any papers, this time. 

Oscar can hear the rain pouring outside. It's more unusual when it's not raining, these days; hasn’t let up since they arrived at Okinoshima, and the innkeeper said it’d been like this for a while even before. He takes a moment to wonder that they haven't all been washed straight off the island before pressing his hands to the desk and levering himself up.

His arms do not strain to push himself up. His hands do not shake where they are flat against the desk. He may not be able to cast even the simplest prestidigitation, but he can bend his own mind to the illusion of function easily.

If you lie to yourself often enough, it becomes truth, or near enough as makes no difference. Isn't that what magic is? Oscar used to change his appearance so often, cast illusions so strong he himself barely remembered what lay beneath them.

Lying to others, to himself--it used to be easier. He could take breaks, occasionally relied on support staff pulled from local meritocratic offices. He didn't have to run himself so ragged, so often, that he's forgotten what it's like to get eight hours of sleep. He often _did_ , but he didn’t _have_ to, and sometimes that makes a difference.

 _Focus_. He doesn’t have that support anymore, doesn’t even have the option, and it doesn’t matter. He can’t let it.

Part of his team is on mission, right now. Zolf will be off to join them, soon, as backup. If they’re still his team--even now, they could be in the hands of the enemy. Theirs could _be_ the hands of the enemy.

Oscar wishes, in a split-second of weakness, that he could have faith in his team. That he could give in, like he’s done before, and believe that _everything will be okay_.

If he wants it to be okay, to even get within _reach_ of _okay_ , he has to keep pushing forwards. Keep working.

Oscar blinks slowly, eyelids heavy, as he stares down at papers that he's certain are important. They have to be, to end up on his desk. Curie doesn't bother sending anything else along. The resulting stack is smaller than it could be, but dense. Every missive could hold the piece of information necessary for saving the world, or it could end up being entirely useless. Most fall somewhere in between.

The floor outside his door creaks. The inn is old, but not that old--Oscar made some modifications when they bought the place and turned it into their headquarters. 

It’s not time for anyone to be returning, and few people wander by his door at this time of night. He draws in a breath, slowly moves his hand under the drawer on the right where he's stashed a dagger.

He's been practicing with it, when he can spare a moment. Or needs one, even if he shouldn’t really spare one. Sometimes he needs to throw something sharp, before every burning feeling in his chest forge themselves into knives and carve their way out as sharper words. His team doesn't deserve that, not when they brave the world outside and still come back to him.

He's made some progress. Not a lot, but he doesn’t miss his target with every other throw, anymore. He thinks Sasha might have been proud. Barnes just frowns at his lack of skill, the rare times they cross paths outside. He frowns at Oscar less often than he used to.

Barnes isn’t here right now. Barnes is the enemy right now.

The enemy could be _at his door_ , right now.

There’s a short knock on the door, and the handle twists. Creaks open, just a bit. Oscar tightens his grip on the dagger. Forces other thoughts away--his head doesn’t clear, never does these days, but he tells himself it’s enough.

Whoever's outside his door sighs, loud enough that they likely mean for him to hear it.

“You missed dinner again. There’s leftovers in the kitchen. Don’t let the food get cold, _again_. Remember I won’t be around to remind you, tomorrow,” Zolf’s gruff voice comes through the door.

Oscar doesn't know what time it is--the sigh could have been despair at the hours he keeps, or a more general expression of disappointment with his overall state of being. These days, both are familiar sentiments, coming from Zolf.

Without waiting for any sign from inside the room--Zolf probably knows Oscar’s a lost cause at this point--distinctive footsteps continue down the hall. Zolf can be quiet, and often is, even if stealth isn’t really his forte. Oscar knows he tends to make more noise around Oscar’s rooms, after one too many times Oscar had startled badly upon being… surprised.

 _This_ time, Oscar relaxes, just a little. Lets go of the knife with a hand that does not shake; not from adrenaline, nor from fatigue, and certainly not from concern for his team. Picks up a pen and pulls the next paper off the top of the pile. He doesn’t make any move towards the door, still cracked open the tiniest bit.

The ray of light from the hall is comforting, in a mundane way. He might not have the backing of the meritocracy anymore, but he’s not working alone here. Not right now.

Not yet.

* * *

Oscar's tired of being tired. He's on the floor tonight, leaning against the side of his chair. It's not at all comfortable, but he doesn't want to move.

That's not quite right. He needs to move, needs to get back to work. His body just… refuses. 

He's so tired. 

Zolf--the thing-that-isn’t-Zolf, not yet, not for another three days--is locked in the anti-magic cell downstairs. Barnes and Carter are as well--the work was important enough, the information solid enough to bring all three of them onto the field.

Oscar is the only agent in the inn proper, tonight.

(Being alone doesn't matter. Oscar can’t let it matter. This work has to get done, and no one else is here to do it. What will his team do if he doesn't keep providing information, direction? _What are we supposed to do if you drop dead?_

What is _Oscar_ supposed to do, if they don’t come back from quarantine? Or if their bodies do, but _they_ don’t?)

He's alone, but he has to start somewhere. Start small.

Oscar grabs the chair leg he's leaning on, pulls himself up. His knees ache from being bent for so long, first sitting at the desk, then crumpled underneath him after he… slept. Oscar doesn’t know for how long; doesn’t remember the last time he looked up from his desk, much less out the window. It’s storming so hard he wouldn’t be able to tell early morning from late evening. It can’t have been too long, though--the cooking timer he borrowed from the inn’s kitchen hasn’t yet signaled the next check on the cell.

He stands on legs that do not buckle. Stares blankly for a moment, shakes his head once, and sits firmly in the chair. Oscar does not rest his head in his hands, does not curse at the pile of incoming missives and paperwork and whatever else the Harlequins deemed worth his attention today. Does not give in to a moment of despair that this may all be for nothing, that he sends his people out to face the highest risks of infection for information, that he lost a team in Rome for _nothing_ \--

Oscar Wilde breathes in, slowly. Holds the breath for a few stolen seconds. Breathes out, slowly again. He doesn’t have time to give in to panic, to anxious spiraling thoughts, to hopelessness.

The room is dark; the candles must have guttered out while he slept. This inn doesn’t have the elemental-powered lights he’s seen in some other parts of Japan. It shouldn’t be a problem. Oscar holds up a hand and snaps his fingers, absentmindedly murmuring a stanza of poetry under his breath.

Nothing happens.

Oscar stares at his hand for a moment, still with two fingers pointed upwards, the rest curled in towards his palm.

The absence of magic shouldn’t be familiar, but he’d thought he’d grown used to it over the past few months. He’s just… forgotten, tonight.

It happens sometimes, forgetting. It comes after the panic, after Oscar’s convinced himself everything will be--not fine, but well enough to move forwards. He is often busy with work, by design, and some days the lack of curls hanging in his eyes distracts from the weight of shackles on his ankle.

Some nights, the metal on his ankles weigh more heavily than it should. Most of all when his remaining allies, few though they are, are far away from him.

Oscar sucks a breath in again. Lets it out slowly. Lowers his hand.

(They’re not far at all. Physically, at least. In all the other ways that matter… they’re dead to him, until they come back. _If_ they come back.

Some of his teams, his friends, have never returned to him. It’s been months. He may never know what happened.)

Oscar shakes himself out of his stupor, looks away from his hand as he flattens his fingers on the desk for a moment. The physicality of the movement, the touch, should be grounding, but... it’s that much harder to come out of this on his own, when there’s no one loitering hopefully just outside the door. No one to remind him that there’s still a world out there to save.

The room is still dark, metal cold on his ankle, unseen under layers of clothing--physical illusion is more of his art these days, by necessity.

Oscar lifts his head, and his eyes catch on a carved wooden dolphin, sitting on the corner of his desk. 

He can’t give in to _hope_ , but the reminder that others do… is useful, sometimes. Oscar drags his eyes away, grabs the lighter from its place of honor on his desk and relights the candle by hand. He pulls the next important message off the pile. The rustle of paper is loud in his empty office.

He has work to get done before the next check on the cell downstairs. If it’s also a distraction from the panic still churning in his stomach… no one is around to call him on it.

Oscar picks up his pen, and gets back to work.

* * *

Oscar picks up his pen, but no words flow onto the paper before him.

He’s sitting on the veranda, off the side of the inn. It’s an unusually calm night; still raining, but more of a pitter-patter drizzle than the downpour they’ve all become accustomed to in the months they’ve been here. There’s a chill in the air, enough to raise goosebumps on his arms. Cold enough to be a bit uncomfortable, but not enough to bother going inside to grab a jacket or shawl. It keeps him awake, at least.

He’s been trying to write. There was little mail today, which means little work for Oscar to do; no news is good news, or so people often tell him. Pratter on with false platitudes. He finds himself growing tired of them more quickly these days. Dead leads, dead hope--a dead team--have not done wonders for his patience, nor his humor.

On the topic of humor… Oscar’s been _trying_ to write. (Is the humor in his writing, or that he’s trying? He doesn’t know.) It used to be his passion, what he did before the meritocracy and Harlequins and espionage all entangled him, drafted his pen in service of goals supposedly loftier than gossip or entertainment.

It’s been so long since he wrote for himself that he doesn’t remember how to start.

Oscar’s pen has been still on the page for a while when the door behind him creaks open behind him. Light spills onto the paper, reflecting off of a page still stubbornly blank. (He’d say _despite his best efforts_ , but he’s too tired to give them. His mediocre efforts, really.)

The silhouette is too short and wide to be anyone other than Zolf. The dwarf doesn’t say anything, but Oscar can feel Zolf’s stare burrow into his back. He doesn’t turn, but tilts his head to the side in acknowledgement.

If he doesn’t turn around, he can maintain the appearance of busyness. Patience. Confidence. Attributes a leader should have, and he certainly does. His colleagues once accused him of having too much of the latter, even. 

Confidence he still has in spades. Oscar’s sure their work will lead _somewhere_ , if there’s something out there for his team to find.

The problem is, he’s not sure there _is_ something for them to find, anymore. Oscar hasn’t dared share that thought with anyone, even hides it from himself most days. Nights… nights are when the hopelessness creeps up, escapes the dark corners of his mind he banishes it to, when work occupies his focus.

He’s so _tired_.

Zolf hasn’t interrupted his introspection, but the shadow he’s casting doesn’t move. Oscar gives it a few more moments, but their camaraderie has reached a point where Oscar’s willing to admit that he cannot out-stubborn Zolf. He sighs. Waves the hand holding the pen in a gesture meant to be nonchalant, dismissive. It might just come off as tired; he can’t tell.

“I’ll be right in. Close the door behind you, you’re letting the warmth out.”

Zolf’s voice, when he responds, is creased with the warm tone of someone recently stirred out of bed. Oscar realizes he doesn’t know what time it is. (To be frank, he often doesn’t these days.)

“You do that. Soon, mind you, we need you awake tomorrow.” A yawn. “May well be today by now.” Point apparently made, Zolf’s shadow retreats. The door shuts quietly behind him, taking the light with it, and Oscar hears the muffled sounds of Zolf’s footsteps head further into the inn.

Oscar has no intention of heading inside. Zolf probably knows that, given the number of times he’s caught Oscar asleep at his desk (or on top of his desk, slumped sideways on his chair, and on the floor a few times. But who’s counting).

It’s not like he thinks, if he stares at the notebook in front of him long enough, the words will come. The only words he’s been able to conjure have been related to work, if that. For minutes at a time his mind remains blank, with a tiredness that weighs on him down to his bones.

Oscar puts his pen down, just for a moment. Closes the pages of his notebook around it. Leans his head against the post that the rest of his side has practically melded with at this point.

There’s nothing much to see but trees, fog, and the occasional _plip_ of rain into the myriad puddles. Still, there’s an ethereal beauty to it, that appeals to Oscar’s aesthetic sense in a way simplicity doesn’t often do.

His team is safe, inside. Knowing that… it does wonders for his peace of mind. He feels calm, settled, for once, and the world around him seems to reflect that.

He wakes up slumped to the side, head still leaning on one of the supports for the roof of the porch. The sky has lightened, though it’s still overcast. A light gray, instead of dark. 

There’s a blanket tucked around his shoulders, damp with the drizzle that likely continued through the night. Oscar doesn’t feel… _awake_ , really, but a sight less tired than he was. A pleasant level of sleepiness, instead of droning exhaustion.

(Zolf seems fond of gestures like these, especially when he can use them to out-maneuver Oscar in their ongoing game of _will-you-just-fucking-sleep-already_.

Oscar won’t admit he’s become fond of it. Saying anything aloud would bring attention to their growing friendship, well past the strict lines of allies or colleagues, and he can’t be having that. The game still has _rules_ , unspoken though they are.)

If he thinks any more, the pleasant fog of rest will dissipate. So he doesn’t. Instead, Oscar tugs the blanket a little closer and allows the warm shadows of sleep to close back in.

It’s the most restful night he’s had in weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Someday maybe we'll get 18 months lore about what the heck happened to Zolf and Wilde. For now I hope you have enjoyed this angst-ridden introspection; it (and Wilde) have been living rent-free in my head for the last few months. Someone please make this man sleep.


End file.
